Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“The Temple So Nice They Named It Twice”

Forgive my trespasses dear reader, and those who trespass against us, for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory…wait a minute, that’s the Lord’s prayer isn’t it? am I going to bed, are these pajamas? Sorry, it’s so hard to tell these days. I’ll be flashing back (not unusual for me) to the week before last’s run at Goa Gaja from last week’s at Ukur Ukur, as not only are they all becoming a blur, but there was no Trash instalment last week due to circumcisions beyond my control. By the way, I love the word “pajamas” and I’ll give anyone who can explain its roots one U.S. dollar (Rp 400.000.000.000.000.000, AUD $100.000, thanks. “Circumcisions” isn’t a bad one either)

This week’s run set by Comes Up from from the Temple of Doom was of course thoroughly spiffingly sterling, old chap. HHH2 (2!) had been sorely missing a Pejeng run and we could do with more if you ask me, which nobody in their right mind would. This run features the famed “bum surf” down the steep valley side, which is every bit as fun when it’s bone dusty dry as when it’s a muddy slippery-slop slide. It’s at least as much fun as can be legally had without exotic dancers being involved, if you ask me, which nobody in their right mind would. I was following Mr. and Mrs. Hard Case at that point and pissing myself laughing so much at Mrs. H.C.’s sound effects (which are legendary) I could barely control my descent, but don’t tell them that. Put it this way: if you closed your eyes and listened they could have been indulging in a very different activity there in those woods.

This was followed by the exhaustingly evil ascent up the 300 (gasping, not counting) steps on the other side: a total buggar but worth it for the unbelievable panorama of the opposite valley once at the top. A fellow hasher was attempting a wheezing comment on the beautious subject, but all I could hear was “thump, thump, thump”. “Sorry, what was that?” I bellowed as he recoiled in shock.

It was indeed a shockingly beautiful run with its clear, cold river water crossings and what a refreshing lack of garbage (by Bali standards). Uh oh, flashback coming, ZAP! The middle of the previous week’s run set by Tin Tin Balls, who put in a mighty effort to change up the same old Goa Gajah outing: The scene was a stunning and serenely sylvan portrait of a temple set on a rise surrounded by lush greenery with padis beyond, below which tumbled an avalanche of weapons grade disgustingly vile looking crap. It even had its very own fragrance to go with it, eau de used-diaper-and-month-old-nasi-goreng-leftovers. Sheesh.

Meanwhile, back in the future this Saturday past (huh?), we were promised a long short and a short long and this turned out to be fairly accurate even if you didn’t know what the f..k the hare was talking about. Front running short arses (yes I’m speaking for myself, except for the front running bit) came in at just after sunset, which also was a rare red and yellow beauty viewed out in the padis coloring a line of tall trees. The temperature dropped about ten degrees in as many minutes as we pigged into the amber item, and a fat golden moon rose between the temple palms. Aaahh, Pejeng…

The circle coalesced and… whoa another flashback! Wooden Eye showed up at the Goa Gajah run the week before Ukur Ukur dressed as a civilian and explaining how he’d managed to drop a building on his foot or something and was unable to perform any Hash activity other than drinking beer. This was a bit suspicious but we gave him the benefit of the doubt and down downed him in the circle as the last native born Prince of Wales, on the anniversary of a revolt against the Poms led by Owain Glyfnddnrdnintendoprrbastrd in the year 1400. The Grand Master knew about these dread goings on because he was in Cardiff at the time. The current version of The Prince of Wales was dismissed as a crank because he talks to plants and screws women that look like horses, or vice versa (talks to women and screws plants that look like horses), (or horses that look like plants).

Sorry, where was I? In bed, no? Oh yeah, Pejeng, the circle. This was a pretty good one as well as they have unfailingly been for months now, if only every bastard would SHUT UP, FORM A CIRCLE and LISTEN. Jeez, it’s not rocket science, you practically don’t need a nervous system to follow it. A relatively bright Golden Labrador would get the idea, in fact they regularly do. So come along now, do be good little hashers and SHUT THE F..K UP, pretty please. Blow Joe regaled us with a tale of the wilds (literally) of Irian Jaya brandishing a blunt wooden club with which he was threatened by a “head” man. Blow Joe had the club, it occurred to me, so what happened to the head man? Several virgins from darkest Brisbane were deflowered with bushes and seemed to enjoy it, Dancing showed up in his Queen- cum-Bo Peep outfit to take his usual credit for the dry season. It’s going to be interesting to see what happens when the wet arrives. Is lynching still illegal, regicide? Night Jar, Tampon, Spook and Jangle Balls entertained us in turn with their usual gusto when EEEEEEEEEEKKKKK (hysterically demented scream), the keg ran out and we went onto bottles. Now this is bound to happen from time to time and I hold it not in any way against any of our very hard working, volunteer committee members, who voluntarily work their members very hard, and who for that we extend our… never mind what we extend. It’s just that I was, well, thirsty, that’s all. I’m always thirsty.

The following is a bed time story (I’ll get there eventually) by a certain hasher who shall remain Jangle Balls:

"Little Hed Riding Rood”

On on,
J.B.